Shuvashree Chowdhury's Blog, page 33

This Morning At Five

The monastery on the hilltop

shrouded in a haze of fog

is nestled amid tall Ferns

that hood its privacy from the world.

I awake again viewing its silhouette

from my bed this morning at five –

watching the fog lift off its golden lining so high:

as my eyes slowly adjust to light streaking outside.

Monks – male and female in maroon habits become

visible as I sit up on my bed cross-legged:

Their shaven heads float into view as do worshippers

fingering prayer beads vigorously, climbing steep steps.

Chirping of a variety of birds permeate my senses

and yet I can hear each one distinctly

through incessant barking of a pet Lhasa and others nearby:

My soul’s harmonious sanctum no clamour can now defy.

 

PS: Just scribbled this sitting on my bed at Thimpu, Bhutan by 5.30 am…took a while typing it out here.

Protected: London

This post is password protected. You must visit the website and enter the password to continue reading.

On Being Yourself

1

Why is former Ms World & well-known Indian actor -Aishwarya Rai’s lip colour at the last Cannes film festival, the talk of the world, and not her work? Whether you personally like the colour or not…is not the point in question. The wearer liked it enough to wear it to such an important occasion and that’s what really matters…I loved her confidence, the spunk to go as she jolly well pleased. She could have worn a red or a pink, to be on the safer side, but she decided on mauve/violet…to be herself.

This twitter drama on her lip colour brings to mind an incident from my life: When I was about 26 -27, a male friend – first a client at work as a high profile passenger on the airline I worked for then, asked me conversationally if I wore Mauve lipstick.

“I’ve never seen one or heard of it” I replied smugly, thinking he was teasing me for the red I wore.

“It will suit you…just as high heels will, if you brave it. I’m off to Dacca, and will be back tomorrow. If I get you a Mauve lipstick, will you wear it?”

“Yeah, sure” I replied, “why not? I’ll trust your taste and will try it once…first on an outing with you off course, if you’re willing to take a woman with Mauve lipstick along.”

True to his words, he returned the next day and at the arrival hall of Calcutta airport, shoved a Christian Doir lipstick, with a pretty ribbon tied around it, into my hand. It was a few shades darker than Aishwarya’s.

I’m not one to shy away from challenges thrown at me. That evening, I wore Muave on my lips somewhat hesitantly with an all-black outfit…I left my waist length hair open, and wore the high heels that he dared me to, to an official party. Everyone loved it and I got so many admiring glances. I actually felt like a model that evening. My friend had the – “I told you so” amused gleam in his eyes.

What he had actually done in effect, was boost the confidence for life – of a girl who was a shy and rather conservative dresser, to wear anything I pleased and carry it with élan. In life I have met so many people, who have influenced me into shedding my caterpillar mask and stepping out into the sun.

With much practise over the years, I no longer care what anyone thinks of what I wear…I dress to please myself.

*****

2

The words in this template above, are so true – especially, “for the first couple of years you make stuff, it’s just not that good. It’s trying to be good, it has potential, but it’s not”: Luckily I had the foresight to understand this, and my first blog started exactly 10 years back in May/June 2006 was anonymous and remains so to this day.

In October 2007, I started another blog, but it just had my name ‘Shuvashree’ and no more…till only over a year later after the blog was already quite popular, I uploaded my photo and only gradually added my true profile/identity. Since then, I’ve had three other public blogs for the practise and to connect with readers and build my confidence. Then to ensure I don’t get too attached to the easy attention and readership I got there – I deleted the most popular blog on Ibibo after a year. Also as I just could not keep up with the demand to my time.

Since then, I’ve never found the need to either make my first anonymous blog public or ever go anonymous again. It’s actually most trying to post your writing on Facebook, way above it is in blogs and that’s why I do so, consistently…As the platform has so many of your old friends, ex-colleagues, family, added to people who don’t read one way or the other, and the number of journalist/writer/poet friends as well. And still you go ahead writing there, like you are singing on the road, irrespective of what people think or say of your ability…it takes a lot of daring to do that, but I persevere. This is even after publishing my first novel in 2013. I now fear no one – reading, misreading, interpreting, or misinterpreting me. As a writer, I feel absolutely liberated and free.[image error]

 

 

 *****

3

Why, I wonder pondering over Anais Nin’s words above, does our society look upon being an extrovert, as if wearing a halo? I was carried away by this desired halo effect too. But I’ve come full circle now:

I spent the first two decades of my life coveting to be an extrovert, and then the next two actually living as a pompous one – I’m not a bad actor you see smile emoticon.

But then, comparing the time spent as an introvert versus that as an extrovert, I realised how I had developed a reduction in the latter – of the finer abilities of being perspective, introspective, intuitive, empathetic and above all compassionate. I also realised that the qualities that I had been applauded for in the latter – of good leadership, were actually the result of the first two decades of my life as an introvert, wherein I’d garnered through reading, quiet, observation and introspection, these very leadership qualities attributed inherently to an extrovert.

Thus began the third phase, another two decades perhaps or more, of my journey back in time to my inherent inner self – that of being an introvert.

But this time I’m always equipped with my well woven extrovert’s cap, handy to wear any time and artfully at that too, when the need arises.[image error]

 

Kanchenjunga Walk

 

The clouds, they floated up

so amazingly slow.

They wrapped the pine trees

in their course.

The sun gleamed

through thickset groves,

or was it the orange glow

of sizzling charcoal?

 

 

Amidst steep avenues

as I leisurely strolled,

the Kanchenjunga’s tips

white in the sunlight shone.

And though I felt the chill

for long in my bones,

it was at a glimpse of her face

I decidedly froze.

 

 

Squatting on the pavement,

an iron brazier she fanned,

over which several cobs of corn baked.

Her fair face now a beet-red

glistened in its warm haze –

or was it the glaze of self-assuredness

she brazenly emanated?

There was as if a halo over her

of optimism, in acceptance of her fight.

 

 

As I walked towards her

drawn by her pretty warm smile,

I noticed over the wine-red lips

her sparkling brown eyes.

Then I viewed the thick red vermillion

on the parting of her head:

as in his school-uniform, her little boy

at me playfully grimaced.

 

 

Even as I waited

for my ear of corn to roast,

another bright face like the moon

rising over the hill, came along.

She smiled at the squatting corn-woman,

both their eyes crinkling ravine deep.

The latter’s silver hair shone,

brighter than the mountain peaks.

 

 

This approaching woman

was bent low to retain her balance,

as strapped from her head –

behind her, a band of coir rope tarried:

It held two black stroller suitcases

also a white tote baggage.

And behind her mountainous bulk

strode to a hill-hotel a young frisky couple.

 

 

In awed compassion I rambled along

munching kernels of corn cob.

Through thick fog, what do I see:

with jute basket’s hung behind them on coir ropes,

two women clambering up towards me.

Both tea-pluckers, chatted animatedly

about their tough day’s work:

of abusive, rigid supervisors they reckoned.

 

 

I came atop a third grill-canopied hangout

after crossing two similar ones,

on the L-shaped Kanchenjunga-view walk.

The youth congregate here on dates –

over tea, coffee, corn, peanuts, not much more.

But are dressed as if walking the ramp at a fashion show.

They liven up the often foggy Darjeeling landscape

with a fashion-sense par excellence.

 

 

As I walk on crunching roasted peanuts now,

the fog shrouds me, or is it clouds?

Shivering in the chill I dash for shelter,

under the tin stall of  a woollen garments seller.

She smiles, bids me to sit, her face so bright –

it’s not only from makeup, also amber of her warm heart.

Thunder rumbles, as large drops of rain descend –

I’m sheathed in awe: of poise, resilience of hill people.

 

(PS: The pictures here, are merely illustrative, though I’ve clicked them myself.)

 

Kanchenjunga Walk

Go Away: Live And Let Live

Go away: Live And Let Live…

You can have your freedom,

But then don’t seek my love.

You can flap your wings wide,

Don’t seek access to my trust.

If you don’t strive to be mine,

My heart will again open up:

It’ll allow in one who belongs,

Who doesn’t seek reckless fun.

You leave my heart’s door open,

It’ll shut you out, so never return.

Just go, go away to your freedom,

I’ll choose one who truly belongs.

I wish you a love that has no bars,

A heart that’s yours, his, everyone’s

There are freedom seekers I attract,

My cage is of gold, refracts the sun.  

Automation birdcage, gilt metal with feathered birds and pearl eggs in nest, 19th century. Associated with Queen Victoria © Royal Collection

 

Till Love Do Us Apart.

Till Love Do Us Apart.

            One evening, a few years back, over coffee with a friend at a resto-cafe, he soulfully narrated to me the story of the opposition to his current romantic liaison. He had lost his wife – a decade younger than him, after a prolonged battle with Cancer, a couple of years back. Now the strong resistance to his desire to marry again, to be happy and live a full life, ironically came from his daughter. She lived in London since the last decade, along with her British husband. And was an ex-journalist having worked long in Delhi where the family lived and is currently a publishing professional. His son was married and lived away with his wife and children in Calcutta.

            My friend, Mr. Boruah, was about 75 years, at the time of this conversation. A rather successful businessman at one time, he now lived a retired and quiet life, though as fit and handsome as a man of 60 might be. He still played Golf regularly at his club, in spite of a weakening elbow. And had his daily measure of the best Scotch whisky before dinner, and as much as was possible, tried to fill his life with intellectually gregarious and artistic company.

            I had first met Mr. Boruah in an official capacity in Calcutta, and we had become friends over varied interactions. I tend to strike friendships easily with men and women, decades older than I am, as I can relate to them just as well as I do with those my age or younger. This is perhaps because I find mutual respect and admiration the necessary requisite to any relationship. And I find that people who are much older are usually more respectful in friendships, as they are confident of who they are, of their views and opinions, and their place in the world. Personal and professional insecurity, jealousy, aggressive and rude condescension resulting from the two, in my view, is the most effective deterrents to friendship. I like to respect people for whom and what they are irrespective of success or failure, rich or poor and am rarely judgemental, but above that I value my self-respect.    

            Over our second cup of coffee, his with ‘Sugar free’ from being diabetic, Mr Boruah went on to share with me the details of the cause of his sad and forlorn look, on my prodding him on it: There was a young woman, about his daughter’s age, Mr. Boruah had known during his earlier working years, who was much in love with him since long. He had been friends with her but did not take her romantic gestures seriously before, in fact had been rather amused by it. But after his wife’s death, this woman who also knew his daughter well, had been pestering him to marry her. She was professionally successful, financially well off, and though over fourty years, had refused to marry anyone other than the man she loved – Mr Boruah. What did it matter if he was 75 years?

             “So why don’t you marry her Mr. Boruah?” I blurted excitedly, rather pleased on his behalf, that he would have a companion in his sunset years, as I was rather fond of him.

            “No, I can’t.” he replied stiffly.

            “But why…why not?” I pestered him, and then smiling I added, “You’ll get a new lease of life…trust me! All those heart ailments you have, will be resolved…As you’ll have a new heart – won’t you?”

            He could not but blush, as he replied – “I wish my daughter were as cool as you.”

            “Ah! So it’s your daughter who has a problem, has she…Well, it is truly her problem not yours, Mr. Boruah” I replied stiffly. “She is happily far way and does not bother as to how you’re going to live alone here. Doesn’t she see and realise how lonely you are and how difficult it increasingly is for you to live by yourself, so what if you have a fleet of butlers and chauffeurs?”

            “My daughter dislikes this woman and will not allow her to take her mother’s place, she argues.” Mr. Boruah stated emphatically. “Every time I’ve tried to broach the topic, of remarrying, she gets furious, and then won’t talk to me for months. Then even I don’t call and now our relationship is rather strained.”

            “That’s rather selfish of your daughter Mr. Boruah, isn’t it?” I said firmly. “Do you want me to talk to her? I’m sure I can convince her, even though I don’t know her at all. She needs to understand that you are so lucky to find genuine love and another chance to live a wholesome life at your age. Why would she wish to steal your happiness from you? That too when she will not have you live with her in London, or come here and live with you.”

            “I know, but who will explain all that to her…if you call she will be furious I even told anyone of this. What upsets me is this young lady – who just refuses to get married to anyone else but me. I’ve coaxed her for the last ten years, but she is just as adamant, as my daughter is against it, to only marry me or no one else.”

            “If it’s your daughter’s insecurity and fear over this new woman’s claim to your money and properties, you could make a will, dividing everything between your daughter and son. This way she won’t have a problem with you marrying I hope.”

            “My daughter knows well, that this woman is rather affluent herself, and she comes from an illustrious family.”

            “Then it is sheer self-centeredness Mr. Boruah, on your daughter’s part.” I insisted.

            Mr. Boruah remained silent, looking at his empty coffee cup for a while, then looking up he said sullenly, “I am so overwrought with agony from the strained relationship with my daughter. If it was only about me, I would never suggest getting married. But I do care about this young woman, who has sacrificed her own marital prospects only because of me.”

            “You owe it to yourself Mr. Boruah, to be happy till the last moment of your life. More so, that God has given you a new lease of life.”

            “I know. But God gives you with one hand, and takes away with another” he grinned.

            “So ironic, you know, since my father’s passing away, I hoped my mother would meet someone, a friend, a companion.” I said thoughtfully. “But you’ve met her, what a difficult and stubborn woman she is…the very idea is beyond her comprehension. I’ve even considered various matches in my neighbourhood (I laughed)…but she will beat me with a broom and throw me out of the house for suggesting such a horrendous thing – she says.”

            Mr. Boruah smiled, “Well, knowing your mother, it is quite expected, even though she is younger than me.”

            “You see, Mr. Boruah, for all my broad mindedness about wishing my mother would remarry, I’d never allow anyone to take my father’s place – neither in my heart and life, nor do I wish to replace him in my mother’s life. I just wish upon her to have a friend, a companion, and lead a full life again. You know how in the last years of my father’s life, Ma was so focussed on his illness and seeing him through it, she had no friends or life of her own. She has no one, except for my sister and me, and ironically we live in other cities. I truly wish she was not alone. This is why I wish for her to have a man in her life…to be married perhaps.”

            “My dear, how I wish my daughter would think like you” Mr Boruah said, as he patted my hand, then asked the waiter for the cheque. After the waiter left with the bill folder and we got up to leave he added sadly – “You see, for my daughter’s sake I can give anyone and anything up, as I will this woman for good…I mean, I must, part with a new love after all, for my daughter’s love. I owe it to her. My happiness is not more important than her happiness.”

The pictures are only for representation

A Starlit Stage

 

It’s a pleasantly cool Calcutta evening

            With the January sun on its way down:

Strums of a guitar I hear in the distance

            As rowed back into shore, I view boats.

 

I’m sitting by the banks of the Ganges

            Watching the river serenely flow below:

The sun giving its ripples an orange glow

            In slipping, plunging into their soft folds.

 

A quiet tranquil now envelops me snugly

            In viewing for long, water’s serene flow;

Birds tired of chirping are rushing home  

            As lights illuminating the bridge turn on. 

 

In shimmering water I now see your glow

            As far notes of a guitar ushers you ashore:

Where I’m seated below the strand lights

            As on a stage awaiting our roles to enfold.

 

The last act we played, it was on this shore

            But feels like such a long, endless time ago,

As I sorely miss your wordless dialogues which   

            I’ve learnt, alone rehearsing both our roles.

 

In my starlit view you’re real, our opera’s true,

            As the river – our audience in waves of delight

Squirms in the chilly breeze: even as I’m warmed     

            In the last scene – passionately embraced by you.

 

 

 

 

 

Resilience: For Kathmandu.

 

“Sir, Sir, give me money to buy cookies,” she cried:

       As we ambled by in the chill – approaching twilight.

 

I just could not comprehend what she had in mind,

    Her Nepali tweaked English was distinct from mine.

 

Construing the puzzlement in my eyes she blurted:

    “Give me biscuits ma’am – I’m hungry since last night.”

 

The teenaged girls had come from asbestos shelters

Or blue tents by Bhaktapur Durbar Square I realised.

 

I shoved all the Nepali currency I had into their hands

As humbled I was – after shopping Rs.100 is all I had:

 

Discerning what could it do to alleviate their raw plight?

An LPG cylinder at Rs. 8000–10000 was bizarre a price.

 

Yet in the late December chill the girls’ smiles did light

With their sincere gratitude – as if a brazier in my mind:

 

That for twelve hours a day Kathmandu has no power —

In asbestos cubicles it freezes without blankets all night.

 

We walked by, miles and miles on the way to our hotel

As taxis were scarce, fuel rarer – costs at an all-time high:

 

Only cabs got 5 litres fuel, queuing daylong twice a week–

The economic blockade with India is four months now.

 

Basic medicines are scarce, major surgeries are on hold,

As houseful hospitals cook meagre meals on firewood.

 

While children take 3 biscuits – one per meal, to school

As homes have no power, gas, even if groceries to cook.

 

Is it not just few months since the city is raising its head

After destruction of homes, property, mass loss of lives?

 

Barely was Nepali civilization billeted in camps, shelters:

Tested anew with hunger, cold, manmade strife is unfair.

 

  It was an ordinary day, on the date of Christmas, last April —

When nearing noon, flocks of a variety of birds screeched;

 

The dogs – both strays and pets began to howl incessantly,

As tremors of an earthquake Kathmandu felt below its feet.

 

Before humanity yet realised what creatures fussed about,

Snakes slithered out of their hovels, ran amok into homes.

 

Young people, at best screamed, slipped on shaky floors,

As buildings, homes, lives crashed to the precarious ground.

 

In few hours, a day, old heritage sites were a cluster of rubble:

Remnants of Bhaktapur, Patan, Kathmandu Durbar Squares’–

 

 Shortly bolstered by wooden planks, till now display natures’ fury;

                          But poised on a frame of stoic resilience 

                                                               Still stands vestiges of humanity.

 

[image error]

Men In My Life

Men In My Life

It was barely a few days into my nursery class, part of the Delhi University campus – where my mother taught at a college, and we lived nearby in Rajendra Nagar at the time, that one evening I returned home to announce: “I will not go to school anymore.”

When repeatedly quizzed by my mother, who was rather puzzled, all I could blurt with the firmness of a three year old is: “I do not like the school, so I will not go to this school anymore.”

The next morning, my mother could not cajole, pressurise, or even physically compel me to get ready for school, much to her amazement.

Though by now, she knew how stubborn I could be as I had recently chucked a maroon knitted tunic out of the bedroom window because I did not like it. This was while she had gone for a bath, laying the dress out on the bed, to get me to wear it after she was ready herself. When she asked me where the dress was, I had calmly announced: “I have thrown it outside. As I do not like it and don’t want to wear it again,” and I even informed her on her angrily probing, that: “I saw a poor lady pick it up and walk off into the park in front.”

Mother in exasperation, my father lived in Calcutta then due to running his printing press there, marched me downstairs to our family doctor, an elderly Sardarji, Dr. Khanna, who was also our landlord. He had incidentally nicknamed me Tinku recently, as I was rather little he thought. Dr. Khanna advised my mother to spank me, and well she did do that rather well.

But now my refusing to go to school was quite another thing altogether. Mother was just contemplating going to Dr. Khanna to seek his advice on how to deal with me, when another Sardarji pulled up his white ambassador taxi in front of the house. This elderly Sardarji, drove a pool car for children to and from our homes to the nursery. On hearing the loud honking of the car, Ma dragged me down by hand and told the Sardarji that I was refusing to go to school. She sought his opinion on why that might be the case. She was to learn to her amazement and amusement – that angered me, that I was the only girl in the car packed back and front with boys, whom she now noticed.

“These wicked boys, pull her cheek, pinch her bottom and even tickle her, pull her hair.” Sardarji admitted after my mother’s repeated quizzing, while I held her hand, but refused to look at my bullies in the car who were grinning at me.

My mother and the Sardarji came to the firm conclusion that I would only sit in front beside the Sardarji from the day after. He was to ensure the boys did not bully me. Thereafter, I did not complain about going to school, as the little men did not dare trouble me again.

It was in the year 1997, a woman of 25 now, that I was to once again feel troubled by a group of men – all about 2-4 years younger than me then. This was, when at the airline I worked for and was barely into my second year, I was handed charge of an all new twenty-four hour reservations and ticketing office also the CIP/VIP handling cell, and a team about 15 that comprised of just one woman other than me. This office was isolated and in the annexe building of the Calcutta airport. Now need I explain to you, how much of a cake walk it might not have been, to get these rather smart young men, just out of St. Xavier’s college, to take me seriously as their boss and to perform? Well, those were some of the most trying moments of my life, but I think I fared rather well and we actually had fun going ahead. But I’d like you to imagine the circumstances to understand how tightly squeezed into a vial I felt by the teams dripping male charms, till I evoked so much smoke from my guts that their fizz settled down.

Since then, over the years, I have had several large teams of men and became pretty adept at reining in youthful male charms, to put to good work.

Now in the December of 2015, just last week, as a woman of 44, once again I felt intimidated all over again, as I did at age 3 and 25, by this deluge of men chasing me with FB messages, after I decided to make my profile more inclusive. I was so rattled by it, and even now am trying to calm my nerves, as the messages continue from those other than those I’ve been blocking all week now. But what troubles me also is my own reaction to this unwarranted trouble, after two decades of working in the public space where I’ve never been spared many a male smirk. Is it that I’m still carrying the male ghosts of my childhood when I was bullied by those little men in the car?

I’m writing this now, ready to brace your amusement even, in publically burying the ghosts of my 3 and 25 year’s old fear of men that somehow tends to erupt now and again. :)  This is in spite of my usual bravado – or why would I have been trusted upon as a beginner, and numerous times after, with these teams of men to train and manage singlehandedly…Well I’m just trying to motivate myself here with the recall of being fearless. Hope on posting this, I’m relieved of my skeletons, and a brave woman emerges who no man can ever rattle again! :)

The Meaning Of Life.

On the afternoon of the 1st of Dec, the day before I had my poetry reading at Alliance Francaise (2nd Dec), along with few of the most reputed poets – Keki Daruwalla, Bina Sarkar, Charles Stein, Arundathi Subrmaniam, Prema Revathi & Kalki Subramaniam, it being my first opportunity, it was a shock to view the flood situation unfold.

Even then, till late evening, I was told that we would continue the next evening with only 3 of us, others were unable to come, as one of the senior poets from the US – was already here in Chennai.So on the 2nd of Dec, I was on standby mode all day and very anxious in bracing myself to get to the venue in the rains. But by afternoon, I knew it was impossible. I also had a reading on the 3rd Dec.

I was angry, dejected, and suddenly poetry, the rains, god, everything and everyone angered me, trust me, I hated it all. But that’s when I decided, that to rise above this emotional and mental crisis, it is a poem and nothing but a long poem that I must write, that too on the floods that had killed my opportunity. I must not wait to write it later, and thus allow it to kill my spirit.

Thus I proceeded to work all day and into the night, to post the poem on the deluge early morning when the internet was finally up.

All I can say is that this experience has surely strengthened my wings. If I had sulked through this, in embracing negativity, I would perhaps have succumbed to it. Now I await the next opportunity. :)

“The Meaning Of Life Is To Find Your Gift. The Purpose Is To Give It Away.” This is why, I tend to scatter my poems, like wild flowers, whether you appreciate them or not, for all and sundry. It took me over ten hours of rigorous work, to write my last poem ‘The Chennai Deluge’ as I wanted to record as most I could for posterity, when people would forget all about these rains…But I shared it right away, instead of waiting to read it at an august gathering or to add it to my collection of about 70 poems – I have not considered making into a manuscript. But that’s also, because I can bear as many rejection notes on my prose, not my poetry, which I write for myself foremost. So to me, my poems are a gift to the world, and hopefully that’s the way they will always remain.



Tag PhotoAdd Location